Ring-tone
by Quille
Summary: "Those hands. They've made the effort to mend a broken heart. To find the right place for every single piece. To round off the sharp edges. And to make it work again." One shot. Proofread by Urban Muse.


. . .

She places her phone on the counter and turns the radio on. Then she reaches for the bag of lettuce. He called her 5 minutes ago to let her know that he had picked up Ellie and they're heading home. The traffic shouldn't be heavy, so she expects them to be home within 20 minutes. But she prefers to keep her eye on the phone. Just in case.

She takes out a big bowl and tosses lettuce inside. Then she walks toward the fridge and looks inside for the box of cherry tomatoes. She finds it behind the tub of sour cream and she briefly thinks about adopting some system, as now looking for something in the fridge is more like hunting in the dark.

But the thought is forgotten when she hears her phone ringing. She closes the fridge with a swing of her hip and quickly grabs her phone. The moment she has it in her hand, she feels uneasy. This ring-tone... She glances at the screen and she doesn't see anything. Nobody is calling. But this ring-tone... It still sounds throughout the room. She gasps when she realizes, then breathes out with a chuckle. So silly. It's the song on the radio. Leanne's favorite song. She played it over and over again one summer, to the point where Jo wanted to scream out with annoyance. That's why Leanne set it as her ring-tone on Jo's phone. Whenever she called, the song played.

The next breath comes out more like a sob. She knows how the human brain works. We're all creatures of habit. Action and reaction. Without even thinking. It's silly that she rushed to answer this ''call.'' Almost funny. Almost. There is this sad part - the fact that her phone won't play this ring-tone ever again. She closes her eyes in order to calm herself down. When she does so, one single tear escapes from beneath her eyelid.

_What does it mean to have a broken heart? Does it mean it's broken like something that was hit hard, too hard, and cracked into pieces? Like on those cliché drawings: a heart with an arrow inside when you're in love; a heart torn in half when your love isn't reciprocated. Broken in half. Like you have two hearts: one before and one after. But it is still there, it works and it can be mended rather easily. Although it takes some time._

_But a broken heart can also mean something else. It might be shattered to pieces. When you love someone with your whole heart, to the point where this person is your heart. And then, without any notice, without any warning, this person is taken away from you. It's like being hit by a truck. Your heart is broken so badly, that it feels like it's not your heart anymore. It's broken also because it doesn't work. It can't. If it did, the pain would be unbearable. So it has to stop working._

_Can it be mended? Sometimes it can. If you're determined enough. Because you can, as well, decide you won't need it ever again. What for? You need it to feel, but feeling is the last thing you want. You need it to love, but you've promised to yourself and to God that you will never love again._

_It can be mended, but it requires a lot of time and a lot of patience, because it's all messed up. Nobody can easily tell how to put those tiny pieces together. Every single one of them has to be taken in hand and studied carefully. Every single one of them has sharp edges that might cut your fingertips. Or somebody's else, if you are lucky enough to have someone who is willing to take on this task and help you with it. To make your heart work again._

She has no idea how long she has been standing there, with her phone in her hand. Finally she puts it down and opens the box of cherry tomatoes, taking them out. She slowly cuts them in half, one after another.

The sound of the key turning in the front door lock makes the corner of her mouth go up slightly. It's barely noticeable, especially because she keeps cutting, keeps her rhythm. A thud comes from the hall. The backpack being dropped to the floor. Followed by two others. The shoes. Then hasty footsteps, almost like running. And the sound of the TV, the familiar intro of a silly TV show.

She rolls her eyes, but at the same time the corner of her mouth twitches. It's Wednesday. It can't be any other way. Then she hears quiet, steady footsteps. Closer and closer. Until they're right behind her. A moment of silence follows. A moment of hesitation. He's waiting for her to turn around, but she doesn't. In between the sounds of the knife hitting the wooden cutting board, she can hear him. He takes a breath and then exhales. Almost like a sigh, but not quite. Then she feels his arms coming around her waist. Slowly, as he doesn't want to startle her. He locks her in his embrace. She knows his body so well by now. It can be so hard when his every muscle is taut. She loves to watch them flex, outline them with her fingertips, with her lips. But right now, his body is relaxed, cradling her own body softly. It feels cozy and she involuntarily leans back against him. She can feel his chest rising and falling with each breath and she finds herself trying to match her own breathing to his.

''Hi,'' he says quietly, right next to her ear.

''Hi,'' she answers. For a second he doesn't say anything and she knows that he's waiting, anticipating her reaction. But she doesn't do anything, relishing this moment: the warmth of his body and the tickling of his breath against her skin.

''Are you okay?'' he asks, tightening his embrace, and for a moment she wonders if it's his intention or if he does it instinctively, feeling that something is wrong.

''Yeah,'' she says and nods slightly. The movement makes a strand of her hair slip from behind her ear. The next thing she feels is his nose, pushing her hair aside. He inhales deeply and she smiles. She knows that he loves the scent of her shampoo. He has told her that on multiple occasions. That's the reason she uses it every morning.

His lips gently brush against her earlobe and then he places a kiss right below her ear. In this perfect spot, where she loves to be kissed. She closes her eyes and lets out a purring sound. It's barely audible, so she isn't sure if he can hear it. But she is sure that he can feel how it vibrates in her chest. That's why he kisses the same spot again. The sound of the knife against the cutting board grows silent as she stops what she is doing, suddenly too distracted to continue. That catches his attention. His hands leave her waist. She's just about to protest when she feels them again. He takes the knife out of her hand and puts it down aside. Then his hands cover hers. They're so much bigger and stronger. They make her feel small and vulnerable. Every other time she would hate that feeling. But at the same time they make her feel safe and protected. And this time, she focuses on this.

He gently strokes the back of her hand with his fingertips. It always makes her smile, as it had been the very first caress she received from him. She entwines her fingers with his in response, feeling his slightly rough skin against her own. Those hands. They've kept her up when she was falling. They've cradled her head against his chest when she was in distress. They've caressed her to make her forget about the whole world and feel only pleasure. They've made the effort to mend a broken heart. To find the right place for every single piece. To round off the sharp edges. And to make it work again.

''You sure?'' he asks once more. She smiles. He doesn't believe her. He can tell something's not right. She's way too silent and too distant. How to explain that she treasures every moment with him simply because he's still here, still with her? Unlike those who are gone.

When he doesn't get any answer, he lets go of her. He takes his hands away and takes a step back, which makes her feel as if she were a bird thrown out from a nest. But then he places his hands on her shoulders and gently turns her around. Their eyes lock.

He doesn't trust her answers, he needs to check on his own. So he looks into her eyes. She can't tell how much he can see. Probably a lot. For sure, more than she would like anybody else to see. But probably not everything.

''Jo?'' he asks again, this time furrowing his eyebrows. His face looks tense. His curiosity turns into anxiety. She brings her hand up to his cheek and strokes it slightly. He shaved this morning, but it's already slightly rough with barely noticeable stubble.

''I'm okay,'' she tells him and smiles. She can see how he relaxes, how his features soften again. Then he leans toward her and kisses her forehead. Like a parent, whose child got hurt and for a moment is uncertain how bad it is, but now sees that everything is fine.

When he draws back, the sadness in her eyes must be gone for good, as he looks at her and asks, ''What's for dinner?''

. . .


End file.
